It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Chrismess
by antepathy
Summary: Grindor has a terrible idea: to know the enemy better by celebrating their holidays.  Mostly crack, a bit of slashy innuendo.


A/N Just a little holiday-themed silliness to brighten your season! I...hope?

Barricade allowed himself a smirk as he admired his handiwork. Grindor had gotten it into his big hard head that the best way to undermine the squishies was to know their culture, which meant, apparently, this whole winter holiday thing. They'd drawn lots, and Barricade had been responsible for this 'Chrismess' thing. Whatever. It was easy enough.

Well, the tree part had been not so easy, actually, but he'd be slagged if he was going to admit that. It stood the height of the rec room, blindingly purple, with fiberoptic lights that could be programmed in different patterns. And tinsel. This stuff? Actually pretty awesome. But after wrestling the purple tree upright, he'd realized he wouldn't be able to tinsel the whole thing. So the tree was really only tinseled from the midline down, but, whatever. Close enough.

The stockings thing had been a little harder, but a quick run through to the prefabber and a called-in favor from Scrapper and, bingo. A row of mesh bags with bright multicolored pompoms on them. Barricade had recoiled, because, yeah, it looked like something barfed up a rainbow but, well. Squishies. No accounting for tastes.

And he'd already marked off a section of the rec room wall nearest to the main power core. Wasn't exactly 'chimney', but, whatever. These carbon-fuel primitives needed to get with the times.

Right. He checked his datapad. Tree, check. Stockings, check, hung by 'chimney' with, well, something approaching care. He didn't know what this 'eggnog' stuff was, so, he substituted Seeker grade energon. What? It was for research, fraggit. Might as well enjoy it.

And…gifts. To go under the tree. He didn't put much stock in this San-Ta mech he'd read about—the accounts were too conflicting—tall, skinny, short, fat, jolly, kind of a creepy housebreaker? Rides a magic cart drawn by fancy deer? Riiiiiiiight. No way this San-Ta was getting in here. Fraggin' operational security and all. Barricade had already installed the surveillance cameras just in case all of these Chrismess accoutrements somehow summoned the weirdo. And he'd stay up all night with a pulse rifle just to make sure.

So instead, he'd assigned each mech to procure a 'gift' for another mech. They lay in a neat mound by the side of the room, each carefully slipped onto the pile, surreptitiously, over the last shiftcycle. It was a nice sized pile of loot, even if some of it was wrapped, well, dubiously. One looked like it had been wrapped entirely in caution tape.

Ha! He looked down at his list, smugly.

And then froze. Oh frag. He'd left himself off the list! He hadn't put his own name down and when he'd done the matching, had lined everyone up with everyone else. He'd even ordered a bunch of little squishy's physical puzzle games for the dronelings, but… No one was getting him anything!

This…sucked. It sucked so hard it had its own gravitational field. It sucked so hard passing mechs risked getting pulled into it.

This, he thought, miserably, is the worst day of my life. I hate Chrismess.

[***]

Starscream prodded the recharging body of Barricade with one toe. The grounder had fallen asleep on the deck, pulse rifle across his knees, blocking the rec room door. "Barricade, it is dutycycle."

"Frag off," he groaned, optics onlining slowly. "Shove dutycycle up your afterburner."

Starscream bent over, scooping Barricade off the ground. "I have not yet tried that particular…kink. Perhaps later." He plopped the grounder onto his feet, snatching the rifle from his grip. "It is Christmas morning, and perhaps you should not be armed."

"Fraggin' armed if I want to be," Barricade muttered. He'd kept himself online for cycles, until his systems had finally mutinied. He blinked, his optics focusing to see the rest of the command crew lining up. Frag. Get this over with. Let everyone else get their 'presents' and frag off already. Maybe if they did it quick he could keep most of the Seeker grade energon for himself. At least enough to pass out until the next slag-stupid cultural fraggin' thing Grindor would make them research.

Slaggit, why couldn't squishies practice like…ritual sacrifice or something?

He slapped the override codes he'd locked the door with last night. It pushed open. Nope. No security breach here. The room was exactly how he'd left it—a bottom-tinseled purple tree, glimmering with patterned lights, a pile of gifts, and a bunch of saggy things hanging on the wall.

"Right," he began, already bored. "Tree. Stockings. Energon." He plopped onto a table, window wings drooping. "Gifts. Whatever."

They crowded into the room, the command line and the latest pod of dronelings. The dronelings chirped and blipped and clicked at everything, their optics swirling as they tried to follow the fiberoptic pattern. Great. Secret anti-droneling device: random light pattern. Fraggin' things were hypnotized.

Their dronemaster clacked loudly, to get their attention, and the dronelings tore themselves away from the sight with reluctance but perked up again as the dronemaster cued them. They began humming a meandering tune, heads bobbing in a sort of tempo-less unison.

Caroling: check. Kind of. Close enough.

"Why's the top of the tree not covered in this silver stuff?" Blackout stooped, prodding at the tinsel. "I mean, like, what's the cultural significance?"

"Cultural significance is I'm too fraggin' short, okay?" Barricade snapped, testily.

"You could have asked for help," Starscream admonished. He pinched some of the tinsel—Barricade had laid it on pretty thick—and lifted it to a higher branch. He arranged it carefully, smoothing down the silver strands, making both ends even. Wow, nice time for the OCD to surface there, jet, Barricade thought.

The drones crowded in, still humming their shapeless melody, helpfully handing up more tinsel to Starscream and the other, taller airframes. Blackout glopped the stuff on like it was spackle, Grindor kept stepping back and observing for effect before he placed his next strand.

This would take…forever. And Barricade would be dead from boredom before then. With no energon, and definitely no presents. Chrismess was the worst holiday ever invented.

"Can we get this over with?" he snarled.

"We are almost finished leveling the scintillant on this tree. While we finish, tell us about the significance."

"It's…a TREE."

Grindor picked up. "A tree for what?"

"Smothering in shiny stuff and putting gifts underneath." You know, gifts. The stuff that Barricade doesn't get any?

Grindor's optics narrowed. "Did you do your research?"

Oh come on! He'd had to spend cycles trying to get Scrapper to make the fraggin' stocking things. Who cared about research! "It's a fraggin' evergreen tree."

"Honorable Instructor! This tree is not green!" a droneling blurted, as if this was somehow new information for Barricade.

"I know that. Decepticon purple." He wasn't going to bring some filthy Earth flora covered in Primus knows what in terms of germs and cooties onto the ship! Nope. He'd found one he could run through an autoclave. "What? Squishies use them, too!" he said, defensively, glaring back at Grindor.

"And what are these?" Starscream tinked something with a talon.

Barricade hunched over, snarling, "Ornaments!"

"Ah!" Starscream stepped back. "It is customary to decorate the tree with the spare parts of one's enemies?"

It is now, Barricade thought. "Look, I didn't have a lot to work with."

"You…made all these?" Blackout shot him a weird look.

"Yes." Barricade glared him down, all four optics spiraling like a little quadrangle of death. It had taken him cycles, with tensor line, spare parts, and a glue gun, but he'd done it.

"The effect is…interesting," Starscream said, diplomatically. Shut up, jet, he thought. At least you're getting a present.

"So what's the purpose of this decorated tree?" Grindor prompted.

"To take up space in your living quarters, apparently. And drop needles all over the place." He'd found little purple fibers in places he didn't even know he had, after the inglorious combat he'd fought to heft the thing upright. He was really glad no one had witnessed that little humiliation.

"I think it's kinda pretty." Blackout nodded at his own judgment. The dronelings nodded, eagerly, still entranced, and now bustling around to look at the ornaments.

"Can we move on?"

"Not until everyone is here," Starscream said, primly. "Bonecrusher has not yet arrived."

"Frag Bonecrusher." Except, well, not. Ick.

"In. Your. Dreams." Bonecrusher rolled in, tail whipping. His beetly face looked at the tree. "Huh. Threw up something that looked like that once."

Barricade growled and was about to say something about making Bonecrusher eat it when Starscream cut him off. "Where is Brawl?"

"Brawl is otherwise indisposed." The tail whipped more dangerously.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he's still sick, huh?" Grindor said. "It's really sweet of you to take care of him."

"I am not taking care of him!" Bonecrusher said, outraged. "That energon was for me!"

"I thought you did not take flight-grade energon, Bonecrusher?" Starscream asked, sweetly. "Real mechs do not drink…pink?"

"You shut up, jet." Bonecrusher wheeled in closer, squinting threateningly up at Starscream, who grinned down, amused.

"I hope that Brawl is feeling better, later," Starscream said, quietly.

Bonecrusher's fists balled. "Shut up. ….thanks." He whirled to glare at Barricade. "So, right. Ugly fake tree. Get on with it."

Finally, someone with the right priorities. Unfortunately, it was Bonecrusher. Whatever. Right now, Barricade just wanted to get it over with.

"UNDER the tree," Barricade said, "presents. In human tradition, they are left by this freaky red mech with some kind of teleportation powers."

"Like the Fallen?" one of the dronelings chirped.

"The Fallen is not red," another said, elbowing the first droneling.

"I meant the teleporting!"

"Oh!"

"Kind of like the Fallen," Barricade said, looking confused, mostly at the words coming out of his vocalizer. San-Ta, in all his research, seemed to have nothing in common with the Fallen. "Except San-Ta isn't on fire."

The dronelings nodded, satisfied.

Until they came up with another question. "Why are the presents wrapped like that?"

Barricade shrugged. "So you don't know what it is."

"What if it's a bomb?"

Seriously? "Nobody gives you a bomb as a present."

Bonecrusher grumbled, "Only because I hadn't thought of it."

Yeah? At this point, Barricade would take a bomb. At least it would be a gift. And it would end this unutterable torment.

"And what do we do with these presents?" Starscream, his optics finally glowing with greed.

I wouldn't know, Barricade thought, glumly, since I won't get any. "You open them." He shrugged. Who cared? Fraggin' presents. Fraggin' San-Ta. San-Ta'd be better if he were on fire. And this whole stupid holiday, too.

They stood there, waiting. "Fine!" He levered himself off the table, stomping over to the row of stockings. "These," he said, beginning to hand the pompomed tubes, "are for the dronelings."

A crackling rustling storm of sound, accompanied by eager clicks and happy whirs. Yeah, well, so they're happy. Yippee. He'd found a supplier who sold human puzzle toys—this Rubik's cube thing, some metal things called 'tavern puzzle's, whatever. Good for dronelings, he'd thought. And he was right. Well, of course, but it was still…kinda gratifying to see them cluster up, admiring each other's gift, and then settle down to try to solve them. Some had draped the stockings over their shoulders, a few had put them on their heads, turning their puzzles over and over, leaning into clumps, collaborating. Fraggin' weirdos.

Well, they were done for the rest of the shiftcycle. He made a note on their pod-supervisor's duty roster to take the puzzles away for recharge cycle. He did not envy him the whining. But that's what the supervisor got for asking for the dronelings to be involved.

"And these?" Starscream, getting impatient, poking at a large red box under the tree.

"Fraggin' fine!" Barricade said. He snatched one up, looked at the label. "Here, Bonecrusher. This is for you."

"Presents are for sissies and airframes," Bonecrusher said, snatching the parcel from Barricade's hand.

"Which makes you…which?" Barricade smirked. Bonecrusher growled at him.

But, the mine destroyer tore into his present, shredding the wrapping paper. His optics bulged. "A poetry dictionary?" he said, his voice climbing a scale in outrage. "I don't need a fraggin' dictionary for poetry!"

"Perhaps this San-Ta thinks you require assistance with your rhyme?" Starscream guessed. He seemed relieved that Bonecrusher's present hadn't been…something he wanted. What did the fraggin' jet want, anyway?

"My rhyme is fine!" Bonecrusher snapped.

"Yeah, except that one." Barricade snickered.

The beetly optics narrowed. "Know where you recharge, four-optics."

"Bring it on," Barricade retorted.

"While your flirting is endearing," Starscream said, loudly, "_others_ have not had their presents yet." He coughed, pointedly. In case Barricade might have missed the subtlety.

"Fine." Barricade turned back to the pile. "Grindor, this is for you." Ha. Make the greedy jet wait. Chrismess spirit and all that.

Grindor took the package, carefully, rolling it over in his hands, feeling its weight, raising it to his olfactory sensors. Right. Rub it in, Barricade thought. "Will you just open it, already!"

"Okay, okay! I was just recording the whole cultural gestalt." Grindor slit the paper open carefully, unfolding it gingerly, as if afraid to wrinkle it. "Oh! Coooooool!" He held up a bulky package of datatracks. "The military history of Cybertron! With interactive combat missions!" His cheekflanges spread, happily. "This is awesome!"

His delight irritated Barricade like sand in the joints. "Here." Barricade shoved a package at Starscream.

Starscream wiggled his hips in delighted anticipation. "For me?"

Oh, cram it, jet, Barricade thought. "Just open it. Not supposed to be a big production." Oh frag this. Barricade stormed the table, grabbing some cubes of energon.

"Oh hey," Blackout said, reaching down to liberate one from Barricade's grasp. "Thanks! You're really awesome for having put this together."

Barricade…did not feel awesome. And much less awesome now that Blackout had horked one of his cubes. He just wanted this over. Meanwhile, Starscream was holding up his gift. Wordless, for once. From his talons draped a long strand of glittering links. That somehow had him on the verge of tears.

"Well?" Barricade asked, stabbing into his cube. "What the frag is that?"

"It is…it is a…a type of decorative chain." He held it up. "I have not seen wing chains since…Cybertron." There was a long, awkward moment as Starscream wibbled.

"Hey, like Vectrinus," Barricade said. Come on. Move things along, already.

Starscream nodded, mouth working. He clutched the chain in his talons. Huh, who knew that an encyclopedic (and kind of embarrassing) knowledge of _Seeker Cadets_ could ever come in handy?

Starscream swung to the floor in front of Barricade, holding the chain. "Put it on!"

Frag. Just when Barricade thought his day could not get any worse, here he had to touch Starscream—for whom he had the total and pathetic hots—with a gift. His life sucked. Still, what could he do other than put his cubes down, and remember how to drape the chain over the wingflaps. Frag. Stupid hot jet. He needed a distraction. "You! Blackout! That green box is yours."

Blackout nodded, kneeling by his box. Barricade fought a sort of hopeless losing battle against his desire to grope at Starscream while he hung the chains over the broad shoulders while Blackout ripped through the paper. Well, at least someone who wasn't going to drag that part out. "Oh neat! Speaking of!" Blackout held up a boxset of the entire run, newly remastered, of _Seeker Cadets_. "Now I can finally see what you two are always raving about!"

Barricade's hands clutched on Starscream's armor, hard enough that the jet winced. ALL of these were—well, maybe not the stupid poetry dictionary thing—MOST of these gifts were pretty fraggin' awesome.

And he got…nothing.

Bonecrusher rolled his optics, as if reading Barricade's whine. "Messy Chrismess or whatever. Fraggin' stupid holiday. I'm out of here." He wheeled toward the door, clutching his poetry book, and snagging a handful of energon cubes on his way. "These are for Brawl!" he yelled as he zoomed out the door.

"RIGHT!" Barricade said, shoving back. "Gift time, over. Energon now!" He snatched at his cube, handing off others. He swallowed his down in two or three rapid, gulping swallows. "See? And that's Chrismess, and we're done." He slammed his cube down, heading for the door.

"Barricade?" Starscream's voice was coaxing. "Are you not forgetting something?"

Barricade whirled. "No!" He pointed, his talons shaking with repressed emotion. "Tree! Stockings. Caroling. Gifts. Food. Done!"

"But…you did not get a present." The jeweled chain glittered when Starscream moved. It was…hypnotic. Barricade hated it.

Barricade choked, as if Starscream had punched through his chassis. "Yeah well, whatever. Someone gets left out. It's a Chrismess tradition."

"Then, uh," Blackout said, still kneeling by the tree, "I think we did this holiday wrong. He dragged a big box out from the tree. When the frag had that gotten there? Barricade had kept watch all slaggin' night!

"Look," Blackout said. "It's for you." He held it out. What…the…frag?

Starscream smirked. "Do you need assistance opening it?"

Barricade's talons closed possessively over the parcel, jerking it away from the copter. No way. HIS present. Just for him! "I got it, jet," he snapped. His talons tore through the wrapping paper.

He blinked. "P-polishing supplies?"

"It seems this San-Ta," Starscream snickered, "noticed that your current polishing supplies are…in dreadful shape."

Barricade knew he should be honked off at the implied insult, but, yeah, it was pretty true. And this stuff? Was nice. That jar of wax had latissium, and that oil was top grade and…a wheel brush?

His thumbtalon traced over the hard bristles of the wheel brush. His was sort of flattened out, smashed looking. This was….

"Hey, wait a minute," Barricade said, snapping back to reality. "Some of this stuff is for airframes!" Oh, like turbine-blade oil? Rotor wax? He glared between the copters and the jet.

Blackout shrugged. "Sharing's the holiday spirit?"

Starscream wriggled, wing chains glittering. "I rather thought you'd enjoy an excuse." He reached over, plucking the wheelbrush out of the box and brushing it gently over Barricade's shoulder tire. "I know I would," he said, his voice changing to silk.

Oh. Well. When you put it that way, totally different.

"Hey," Grindor said, looking up from his present, which he'd been scrolling through since he opened it, "I have an idea. We can all share." He tilted back to the table. "Energon, datavid, polish…." He blinked at Starscream. "And, uh, whatever Starscream brings."

"Bring? Why…my fabulous self, of course." The jet squatted down, curling possessive arms around Barricade. "As Bonecrusher said, Messy Chrismess."

Mmmmaybe this holiday didn't entirely suck, Barricade thought, as he leaned into the jet's embrace, his cortex already imagining the silky slide of his hands and the new oil under those wing chains.


End file.
